


Going Under

by tremmy_chii



Category: GOT7
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Don't copy to another site, Drug Dealing, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, GOT7_TAROT_19, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Violence, a lot of these are for oc characters relevant to the background, but like bad action because never written it before, oh lawd the tags make it sound worse than it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremmy_chii/pseuds/tremmy_chii
Summary: The world has never treated Jaebeom well, but maybe this time it's finally doing something right.He meets an angel under a new moon. (Too bad it's a road straight to hell from there.)





	Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> tarot card: the lovers, upright

Jaebeom isn't above fighting dirty. 

When a hard punch to the face sends him flying to the cold, hard ground, the first thing he does is dig his fingers into the gravel, desperately fisting all the sand and tiny rocks he can get. There's no time to feel pain – only a split second to chuck the dirt into his opponent's eyes. Jaebeom grits his teeth and pulls himself to his feet despite the protests throughout his body. While the man in front of him is blinded and cursing through the burn, Jaebeom turns around and ducks _ just _in time to feel the graze of a heavily accessorized fist miss his face. He roars and bulldozes the second bastard into the trash can, whose groan is drowned out by the echoing clang of the metal lid in the deserted alley. Jaebeom tightens his grip around the collar of the man's stupid dress shirt and twists his waist back, elbow sharp and bloody fist ready. He lets the added weight of his body thrust his fist forward, slamming the guy's face in with a satisfying crack. Spit and bright red blood splatters onto the lower half of his face. The nose he's aiming for no longer stands straight. Jaebeom repeats it once, twice, ignoring the yowls of pain that turn into whimpers, before a pair of hands grabs his throat from behind.

Jaebeom chokes in surprise, releasing the weaker, smaller thug in front of him to slide down to the floor. Jaebeom elbows the assailant behind him, which successfully releases him into a stagger but also gets him another punch to the stomach. Jaebeom retches in response but quickly forces himself to swallow down the bile. He's breathing haggardly now, chest heaving up and down in big motions. Each breath of air feels like he's piercing his lungs. Standing still makes him too aware that his head is spinning, that his ears are ringing. 

Gotta keep it moving then. 

The more muscular, older man with the scar down his eyelid is apparently throwing punches blindly, still crying and cursing up a storm – he somehow got lucky with his swings earlier, which means Jaebeom is losing his senses. 

_ Shit_. Jaebeom backs away to an open space, arms raised up to defend against anything that might come his way. Sweat rolls down from his hairline to his neck, seeping into the worn-out cotton of his already ratty shirt. The metallic taste of blood hits his tongue again, and sure enough, when he runs it over to the inside of his right cheek, he feels a cut there. Probably bit into it somewhere between the fight. Jaebeom spits it out, eyes still trained on his opponents. One is completely knocked out but the other is starting to regain his vision. He can’t lose his advantage so easily.

Jaebeom charges forward and feints a hook from his right, then he changes the attack into a sweep at the very last second. He hooks one leg behind the other man and pulls to throw him off balance. It’s the additional effort afterwards to thrust his palms against those muscular shoulders that earns Jaebeom the win. 

The man falls backwards head-first – Jaebeom can’t help cringing at the sound of a crack – and groans loudly. Jaebeom immediately hovers over him and stomps on his defenseless figure. He rams his foot deep into his belly – and no matter how hard one’s core is, even a kick like that will send them hurling on the ground, curling into a shrimp. Jaebeom keeps going, not even registering how his fists are starting to loosen up from how hard his fingers are shaking. He takes a step back to crush the guy’s knee, or at least make sure it pops and puts him out of commission for a while. A scream shoots into the night sky.

There’s no mercy in street fights. Jaebeom has had to learn that a long time ago. If they didn’t think chasing down a fifteen-year-old kid to the ends of the earth was beneath them, then they certainly won’t think about letting twenty-four-year-old Jaebeom get away with his life now. Not unless Jaebeom beats them first. 

“Stay out of my sight, _ you fucking hear me_?” Jaebeom growls, jaw aching. He kicks the man’s face from one side to the other for emphasis. A tooth flies out. “Whatever my old man owes you ain’t my problem. Give _ him _ hell. But don’t mess with me. Ever.” 

The last kick is served to an unconscious man. Maybe the full message wasn’t even delivered.

Jaebeom stumbles backwards and leans against a wall, craning his neck upwards. Humid puffs of air continue to escape from his mouth. When he swallows, the spit is thick and lumps at his throat. His heart is pounding rapidly, adrenaline keeping him alive. The more he rests here, the more fucked he will be. Because once that wears off, and the pain catches up to him, he’ll pass out on the spot. 

These two weren’t like the usual (if any) that come after him. His shitty old man gets into trouble with loan sharks all the time, which means some of it is bound to come his way. At that point, Jaebeom’s rough appearance and experience with his fists are enough to scare the posers away. But these two – they knew how to fight. They’re a higher level than the crowd Jaebeom is used to before he got the upper hand. It was more of a challenge because it was two against one. But the pretentious suit and muscles were just for show – at least Jaebeom got that right when he decided to fight, not run. 

Jaebeom’s vision swims, the dim lights from a distance all blurring together. 

He needs to get out of here before the police do. 

He clutches his stomach and uses the wall to help him move forward. Each step is making the muscles in his calves burn. Is he just exhausted, or did he sprain something? It better be the first, because he’s got work tomorrow morning. His head feels heavy. So, so heavy. 

And now his heart rate is slowing down… 

…down… 

…down. 

If he didn’t know any better, Jaebeom would think it would come to a complete stop. An anticlimactic death to his anticlimactic life. And that would be the sickest thing of all. Surviving up until now just to end like that. 

Jaebeom fights and glares at the swimming lights until he reaches them with gritted teeth. The walk can’t stop here. He has to give himself enough distance from the scene, and that could take many kilometers. In the best case scenario, he makes it all the way home. He’s not confident about that though. 

Jaebeom walks and walks – it feels like forever, like everything around him is moving too fast. He’s sure there’s no one around too. Any normal civilian who takes one look at him will turn on their heels and take another way to their destination. His lip is busted and he’s trudging on the streets. It’s obvious he just got out of a bad fight. Even in this state, Jaebeom worries about his job – how will he explain this when he shows up with a black eye tomorrow? He can’t fix himself up, can’t afford to do anything but let nature do all the work. He can’t go back to being unemployed. 

He trips on something – or maybe his legs give out – and he ends up on his hands and knees. The fall ironically hurts the most out of everything so far. Still, he doesn’t make a sound, too tired to do so. Jaebeom slowly slumps against a wall, legs sprawled out, eyes hazy. He glances at his palms and stares at the fresh scrapes. Tiny rocks stick to his cuts. He absent-mindedly brushes them off before looking up at the new moon. It’s mostly pitch black save for the faint rim of light around the edges. The fact that he can even make out what it is amuses him greatly. He’s got a headache that makes staying conscious difficult and yet he still knows that there’s a moon out there. 

Jaebeom closes his eyes.

Maybe he does deserve a pathetic end.

-

“Stop.”

The silence is broken.

The car pulls over to the side, parked right in the darkness between the two streetlights. There’s hardly anyone around this late at night. 

“I’ll be right back.”

A single young man steps out from the back seat, leaving behind his only companion and the driver up front. He crosses the street to the other side and makes his way back to where the car had driven past. Despite wearing patent leather boots, his steps make little to no noise. He stops in front of a body sprawled on the floor, back leaned against a building and head lolled over towards a hint of light. The face is beaten up. Covered in dried sweat. A bit of blood. Handsome. 

He bends down and places two fingers underneath the nose. 

Handsome and alive.

He stands up straight and considers the man passed out beneath him for a moment. Then, he turns away and walks further down the path. There’s a convenience store nearby.

-

Jaebeom’s eyelids slowly pull themselves apart. He regains consciousness with a deep groan. He liked it better when he was completely knocked out – at least the pain wasn’t there, even if he was in the most vulnerable position out on the streets. Then again, there’s nothing on him worth robbing. _ Well, that’s naive_, a part of him refutes immediately. They could always go after his organs. 

Someone is shaking his shoulder. 

“Hey,” a gentle voice calls out to him. 

Jaebeom can’t move. Or rather, he doesn’t _ want _ to move. Lifting a finger seems like it would be a difficult task, let alone sitting up. He’s dirty and worthless; shouldn’t they know better than to approach him? 

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t have the energy to snort, but the corner of his lips does twitch a little in mockery. _ What do you think? Can’t you see? _ But considering the pathetic state that he’s in, no one would ever guess that he walked out of the fight a victor. 

“Mn,” Jaebeom makes an ambiguous sound from the back of his throat. He closes his eyes again without getting a look at the nosy stranger above him. 

“Should I go get help?”

“Mmno,” he slurs. “No, s’fine.”

“But you’re hurt.” The palpable concern in the man’s voice makes Jaebeom curious. He turns his head towards the direction of the voice and makes a clearer effort to open his eyes. 

“…Used to it…” Jaebeom mutters as he blinks the blurriness in his eyes away. At first, he can only see the silhouette of a young man crouching beside him. His hair is done up, and he’s got a long coat. Just from that and Jaebeom can already tell that someone like him shouldn’t be associating himself with someone like Jaebeom. He’s directly in front of the lighthead across the street, which makes him glow around the edges. The stupid part of Jaebeom muses that he looks like the new moon. 

The man moves a little closer to him, and that’s when Jaebeom sees his face.

Something weird happens. Weird enough for Jaebeom to think he’s about to die. 

His heart thumps loudly once. Just once, as if to remind him that it’s still working before everything around him falls into silence. His headache dulls into a vague vibration. It’s like he _ knows _ it’s there, can even somewhat feel a tapping on his skull, but it doesn’t bother him like it should be. His stomach stops trying to empty its contents. He can’t feel his sore limbs either. Even if he moves his hand or curls his toes in his shoes to test out his senses, everything about him feels like jelly. Like he’s just floating. Existing. 

Jaebeom can’t help staring at the man through half-lidded eyes. 

He has to be a foreigner, because there’s no way anyone in Korea can have features like these. His eyes are big and round, warm and gentle as they stare back into Jaebeom’s. He has neat, thin eyebrows that are now tugging at something inside of Jaebeom’s chest because they’re furrowed and downcast at the ends like a puppy. Shadows dance on his face to accentuate the height of his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jawline whenever he moves his head even one millimeter. And then there’s his lips – plump. Moving. Jaebeom can’t make out what he’s saying though, stuck in another dimension. 

Jaebeom stays still, mesmerized. 

Huh. 

Maybe angels do exist.

“I don’t really know what to do.” Distress laces the stranger’s voice. “I bought all this in a rush but I don’t know where to begin…”

Nothing really registers until suddenly – _ shockingly _ – an ice pack is pressed to his face.

The dream bubble bursts, and Jaebeom hisses back into reality. The soreness all over his body comes back. Goddamn it.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine…” Jaebeom calms the frantic stranger down. “It’s just cold.” Well, thanks to that, he feels more awake than ever, more like himself and less like death. He picks up the fallen ice pack and puts it back on his face. His cheek and left eye will appreciate it.

“Oh okay,” the other sighs. “I didn’t know how hurt you were so I just. Bought everything.” He shows Jaebeom the contents of a plastic bag and – yeah, wow, he might’ve just bought the entire first aid shelf. “Your lip is cut pretty bad. Should I help you disinfect it?”

Jaebeom stares at him for a moment. “Why are you helping me?”

He twiddles his thumbs. “…Uhm… why not?”

“You shouldn’t help strangers. I could hurt you.” 

He bites his lip nervously before blurting out a bit too loudly, “I thought you were dead!”

Jaebeom blinks. There’s humor in there somewhere, but Jaebeom is just… in awe at everything right now. 

“You have all this,” both hands wave around his torso, “blood on you and it freaked me out! You must’ve gotten mobbed or something!”

“Uh…yeah.” 

“I checked to see if you were alive and, well, you were, so… I couldn’t just leave you here.”

Jaebeom is speechless. He didn’t think people could be so… nice. Not to him, anyway.

“Of course I was a little scared, but it worked out!”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to hurt me…?” His voice lilts at the end, uncertainty still present. “Right?”

Jaebeom smiles. (Ouch. That pulled on the cut.) “Thank you.” He really, really means it. He hasn’t gotten such a kind gesture in so long it makes his stomach turn – in a good way.

The stranger smiles back, all teeth and twinkling eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He disinfects Jaebeom’s wounds and wraps him up in bandages wherever he can. He’s a bit clumsy at it; some are too tight and others too loose. But he looks so determined and sincere that Jaebeom doesn’t correct anything. Instead, he commits the scene in front of him deep into memory. 

When the young man puts his hand on top of Jaebeom’s to give him the rest of the bag, it’s overbearingly warm. Jaebeom has been holding onto the ice the entire time, making the contrast even more prominent. He doesn’t pull away.

“Keep this. I hope you go home safely.”

-

The door is held open for him long before he reaches the car. Once he ducks inside and crosses his legs into a comfortable position, the door is closed and his companion makes the circle around to the other seat beside him. 

“What were you doing?”

He smiles cryptically as the car drives off. 

“Bambam.”

Bambam sighs and looks out the window. “I just saw a cute stray I wanted to pet,” he answers happily.

“You need to be careful.”

“I’ve got you, don’t I?” No response. Bambam tears his eyes away from the streets. “Don’t I, Mark?” He asks again.

“…Always.”

-

By the time Bambam reaches the warehouse, everything has been taken care of. The cameras have been tampered with, the bodies are in the bags, and the floor is sparkling clean. The scent of artificial lemon hits his nose as soon as he enters the door. His men kneel on one knee before him.

“Report.”

One of his team leaders comes forward. “All enemies were eliminated. Zero casualties. One injured.” 

Bambam scans the crowd and sees one of the younger recruits holding onto his shoulder. They make eye contact, to which the boy immediately ducks his head, trembling. Bambam’s face darkens, displeased. “Fix him up."

"Yes, boss."

There is no movement. Unless Bambam gives the word, everyone is to stay put. It's just how things work. One mistake, and suffer the consequences.

Bambam walks towards the suitcases lined up neatly on a large crate and waves his hand upwards. Like clockwork, two men rise up to unlock all twenty of them. Bambam picks up a stack of cash and flips through it, eyeing the depth of the cases and making an estimate instantly. 

This isn’t even a fraction of what it should be. 

"Where is the rest?" He asks coldly.

There's a beat of hesitation. 

The pause is enough for a gun to be whipped out behind Bambam, the action so fast that no one in sight could even react despite being trained to always stay sharp. (“Pull the trigger first. Think later.”) The muzzle points straight between the leader's eyes.

"Mark," Bambam warns. He shakes his head. Fear is a good tactic – but not without reason.

Mark lowers the gun and spins it back into his inner breast pocket. It's perfectly concealed. He steps back as if nothing happened. 

"Find the rest of my goods.” Bambam slams the suitcases shut, locking them up and beckoning a select few to pick the rest up and follow him. At the last minute, he decides to chuck the one in his right hand behind. Despite the subpar performance, they need the bait to work harder. “Show them what happens when you mess with my _ family_." 

"Yes, boss!" His men chorus as he strides towards the exit with nearly 100 million won in his hands.

-

"Break in ten minutes! All machinery on standby, please!" The megaphone announces to the workers. The message is relayed through walkie-talkies as well. Despite so, construction continues up until the last minute, hammers and saws making ear-splitting sounds on metal. Wood dust flies through the air in thick, visible clouds. Even with a mask on, Jaebeom can feel his lungs protesting. He sighs and pinches his nose, trying to relieve his irritated nostrils as he waits for the lift to reach the ground. Clearly he’s got the short end of the stick, being about 20 meters above and having to slowly descend while everyone else is already taking a long swig of water and reaching into their coolers for their lunch. 

Jaebeom supposes it doesn’t really matter. First of all, he’s not in a position to be complaining – he’s just glad to be here where the pay is good (in his standards). There’s not many places that will hire him when he doesn’t even have a high school diploma. And second of all… it really doesn’t take that long to munch on a single rice ball. 

Once the red light turns green, Jaebeom takes off his safety rope and equipment, hopping off the lift and beelining for his belongings. There’s no one else quite as young as he is around here, only rowdy middle-aged men who immediately start complaining about how their stamina isn’t what it used to be or about their nagging wives. Jaebeom gets a clap on the back sometimes or even a “good work,” but he mostly runs away from the construction site to spend his lunch breaks alone. He doesn’t belong here – he understands that much – when there are plenty of sons and daughters around his age getting a degree or interviewing for a job at Samsung. He’s sure these older men wonder why he’s here and conspire why he shows up with injuries overnight. 

It’s been a week since _ then_. 

Jaebeom tries not to think about it too much or else he’ll get his hopes up, wrapped around the fantasy of seeing _ him _ again. 

…Which, of course, absolutely never works. Every time he tries not to think about something, he does. And it’s getting real bad, especially because he has physical reminders in the form of cute bandages and a phantom touch. Jaebeom didn’t notice at the time since it was dark, but aside from the white linen ones to wrap around larger areas, he was given embarrassing pink polka dot bandages for his palms and face. They’re fancy anti-scarring ones too, so Jaebeom can’t just let them go to waste. He normally lets his body do all the healing. A good shower and some sleep had been enough to keep him alive so far. 

But there weren’t just bandages and disinfectant alcohol in that bag. There were also snacks, painkillers, ointment, gauze pads, and a freaking emergency blanket that looked more like tin foil to him when he first pulled it out until he started sweating under it because it was _ too _ effective. 

It’s _ so much stuff _ Jaebeom had never been able to afford without stealing. If he knew how much he had been given, he would’ve done more than say a stupid little “thank you.” He can’t pay the guy back, but maybe he could’ve played bodyguard or something. Beat up an asshole here and there. 

Jaebeom picks up his jacket and his lunch along with it, briskly walking past the makeshift tables set up for the break. He exits the area and goes through several more gates with caution tape and construction signs that line the fence every few meters. He walks into a narrow street and jumps over a wall, landing on his feet on the other side. It’s funny how he always ends up in dirty, deserted alleys, whether it’s by will or force, day or night. He really is a street rat.

Jaebeom wants to see that stranger again. Partially to further express how thankful he is for everything, but mostly so he can get his name and put his mind to rest. Because – _ lord _ knows how many times his cheeks have flared up in the middle of the day for thinking of and dubbing the guy as _ angel_. It’s fucking embarrassing and way, way, way too soft for his liking. (Even if he does look like one.) 

And as much as he curses the universe, it seems like some of his wishes do get heard. 

Right in front of him, crouching beside all his cats, is the very same angel he’s been undeniably loitering around the convenience store at midnight in hopes of running into again. Everyone startles – Jaebeom, the stranger, the cats. While the cats hiss and run back into the trash heap, the two of them remain frozen on the spot, staring at each other wide-eyed. 

Jaebeom’s belly lurches. What the hell.

“It’s… you.” The young man’s eyes shine with recognition. He brushes his hands on his knees before getting up. Jaebeom watches every single movement. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Jaebeom blurts. He immediately feels ashamed the moment it leaves his mouth, hands balling into fists. That’s not what he wanted to say when he thought about seeing him again. He didn’t mean to sound so crass and rude, he’s just used to speaking this way. He really needs to fix that. 

“I just heard some cats so…” Both of their eyes fall to the open can of tuna on the floor. He smiles sheepishly and nervously shoves his hands into his pockets, taking a step back. Jaebeom realizes then that he doesn’t look the friendliest right now, wearing an unintentional glare while covered in healing but visible bruises. Looking like every bit of the thug people expect him to be. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your way –!”

“–Wait!” Jaebeom shouts. He even surprises himself with how loud he is. He winces. “Argh – fuck – sorry…” Jaebeom chews on his lip, disregarding how there’s a cut there he should be wary of. He also shoves his hands into his pockets, averting his gaze. “I just didn’t expect to see you here,” he mutters and sniffs. Hopefully he’s heard.

“Me neither.”

A black cat slinks out of the trash can to cautiously paw at the can of tuna, watching the two humans carefully. Honestly, Jaebeom feels a little hurt none of the cats are acknowledging him despite all their time together. _ Little rascals_, he still thinks fondly when four more come out of hiding. 

After a bit of silence, he hears, “How are you doing?”

Jaebeom tears his eyes away from the cats, feeling awkward now that he’s lost his only source of distraction. He wishes he was better at this… “people” thing. “Good.” He nods. “Thanks to you.” 

What he gets is a pretty, pretty smile, one that Jaebeom is suddenly afraid of looking at for too long. He whips his head to the other direction. Pretty things – pretty _ people _ intimidate him. They make him feel small, and a bit like rubbish. He kicks a soda can around to look busy.

“Great! I was worried about you.”

Jaebeom glances up, and then swallows thickly as he looks back down. _ You were? _ He doesn’t ask. No one worries about him.

“You were gone the next time I came back, which could’ve been a good or a bad thing.”

“I had work,” Jaebeom explains. 

“That’s a relief.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve got to get going now. It was nice seeing you!” 

Jaebeom panics. _ Ask for his name! _ “You like cats?” He shouts towards the angel’s back instead. Jaebeom barely restrains from socking himself in the face for that. God, _ get it together_!

“I do.”

“Then come see these rascals whenever you want. You’re welcome here,” Jaebeom pulls out of his ass. 

“They’re yours?” His eyebrows shoot up.

“…Well, no, but they might as well be.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound makes Jaebeom’s chest do funny constricting things. Jaebeom finds himself anticipating his response. 

“I’d love to, but I don’t think I’ll be around this part of the city often.”

Jaebeom deflates. “Alright then. S’nice of you to get them food.” Before he can chicken out and regret it forever, he musters up the courage to ask, “What’s your name?”

"Bambam."

Jaebeom stares for a moment, confused.

"I'm Thai," Bambam says as he shrinks into his shoulders, rocking on the balls of his feet.

Jaebeom pales, realizing he messed up yet _ again_. He knew Bambam was a foreigner but he shouldn't have had to pause like that, as if it was a weird name to have. What the hell does he know about Thai culture to judge people like that? "My name is Jaebeom," he says quickly. "I'm Korean."

Bambam laughs behind his hand, leaving only his happy crescent eyes for Jaebeom to see. "Bye, Jaebeom."

"Bye," Jaebeom echoes as his body takes a step forward, unconsciously wanting to chase after him. They wave a little bit at each other. Their meeting is over as soon as it begins. When Bambam is out of sight, Jaebeom crouches down and ruffles his hair in frustration. "_Ugh_." He wishes he said more, or that there was more time.

Meanwhile, the cats are rolling around, play-fighting after getting their bellies full with tuna. Jaebeom watches them longingly until he notices something silver gleaming in the light that isn't the aluminum can. He gets up and walks over.

Jaebeom picks up the bracelet, sees the diamonds lining the white gold, and starts running in the direction Bambam left. 

"Bambam!" He yells, only to meet silence. There’s not a single soul in sight. He decides to head into the public streets, but at that point, Jaebeom has no idea which direction he could have gone. There's too much of a crowd to tell. 

How did Bambam disappear so fast?

-

Jaebeom spends the next few days neck-deep in anxiety. He’s carrying on his body what might be worth millions of won – which is probably more than he’s ever had in his _ whole life_. Rather than dwelling over how sad that is, he’s simply on guard 24/7, worried about getting mugged again and having to watch in horror as he loses the bracelet in a fight. Not that he’d ever let that happen, but he’d rather _ not _ give his old man’s pursuers an incentive to come after him. It’s already annoying enough when they know he has nothing but the clothes on his back. 

He’s slouching on a bench across the street from the convenience store, legs comfortably wide apart and hands clasped together in his hoodie. He’s not allowed to be at the store-front anymore; the owner had confronted him yesterday with a broomstick in hand, yelling about how he’s an “absolute menace” ruining her business. Thinking about it just sours his mood. Jaebeom wasn’t causing any trouble. He never even entered the store and always kept a decent distance away. If anyone felt intimidated by his small, sharp eyes and tough build then that was their problem, not his. 

It’s cold outside too. Work in the daytime is bearable because he’s always moving, lifting, and working up a sweat with all the physical labor. But once night falls, Jaebeom needs to scurry home before his ass falls off. 

Jaebeom knows better. The chance of seeing Bambam again, with no way of contacting each other, is next to none. The smart thing to do is to pawn the bracelet off – Bambam wouldn’t know he did it. With that much money, he could afford _ months _ worth of rent. He could actually afford to buy meat that isn’t the Saturday Sale on chicken thighs. He could buy his favorite book instead of constantly coming back to the library to check if it’s available for checkout. He could even buy a big, puffy parka that reaches all the way down to his calves so he’d never have to worry about the weather ever again. It’s tempting, it really is. Jaebeom figures his greed would go haywire if he ever took it out for appraisal. 

And yet here he is, waiting helplessly for the owner of the diamond bracelet while pretending everything is fine under his old hoodie. He can’t believe he’s risking his neck like this over a boy whose name he barely knows. (A boy who’s sweet enough to help bleeding strangers and homeless cats. A boy whose soft smile won’t leave the back of his eyelids.) A boy who is a hundred, a thousand, a _ million _ times out of his league. 

Jaebeom sniffs. His nose is getting runny. 

He owes Bambam a favor. This is the least he can do. 

After another hour of waiting, Jaebeom heads home with a heavy heart. 

The walk is long, but Jaebeom is used to being on his feet. His digits are feeling kind of numb now anyway, so the cold bite is barely there. He lives in a basement that’s barely 25 square meters, hidden behind a family’s backyard through a separate walkway built so that he’d never be in contact with them except to pay rent. The place is stony and poorly insulated; a cold draft never fails to enter from the window, leaving him to curl up against a corner in at least two layers. The water pressure of the toilet is ridiculously low, and there’s nothing Jaebeom can do about it. The basement is illegal of course – that’s why it’s so cheap and shitty. If there’s any redeeming quality about it, it’s got to be the endless supply of hot water. 

Jaebeom strips as soon as he steps inside, chucking everything into the dirty laundry basket. The cold air raises goosebumps on his skin instantly, so he quickly steps into the shower and cranks the hot water lever all the way to max. The moment the water turns a touch beneath scalding, he eases the lever back to something more bearable. Jaebeom leans his forehead against the wall, sighing in relief as his toes warm up. He stays there with his eyes closed, lazily scrubbing his arms as the hot water cascades down his back. It’s the best part of the day.

He takes his time to relax, feeling all his tense muscles loosen up. As he cleans, he also checks on his previous wounds. Jaebeom has always had a great recovery system, so he’s not surprised to find even the worst of his bruises only a faint tan of hyperpigmentation. He’s back in shape. Hopefully nothing stupid happens in the near future. 

After the shower, Jaebeom boils some water to drink. He’s run out of tea a long time ago but hasn’t found the need to get more. He sips on that for a while, and then rolls onto his mattress. The bracelet is tucked in a corner, just in case.

The night ends quietly like that, everyday. 

Jaebeom twists right and left. He thinks he might be lonely.

-

“Break in ten minutes!” Jaebeom stops to hear. He adjusts the wooden planks in each arm, biceps flexing, and quickens the pace to his drop-off destination. His manager said this would be his last delivery before the break, regardless of when he finished. If he hurries, he can get a five minute head start to see the cats. Jaebeom loads the planks into a large box, where a forklift will grab and bring the leftover supplies to the other side of construction later. He does this two more times before the job is done. 

Jaebeom reports this to his boss and gets the “OK” to leave for his break. He shoves his face into a towel first, wiping away all the sweat. While busy taking off his neon vest, an older coworker approaches him. 

“Hey!” Jaebeom gets a hard slap on the back. He flinches and gives the man a strained smile. “Good work out there, kid!” His cheery voice is accompanied by an even bigger, brighter grin. Mr. Kim’s pot belly protrudes as he rests his hands on his hips. “Eager to leave, eh?”

“Yeah…” Jaebeom replies awkwardly, looking around to see if anyone’s watching. It’s unusual for someone to strike a conversation with him. And besides… Jaebeom’s not a kid. He tries to explain as such. 

“Bah,” Mr. Kim dismisses, “if you’re younger than my son – which you are – then you’re practically my kid!” Slap. 

Jaebeom is ready for the impact this time, so it’s not so bad. He stands up straighter, confused about where this conversation is heading. He just wants to go. Any minute lost could be a missed opportunity to see… ah, he shouldn’t be getting his hopes up.

“Anyway, here ya go.” Mr. Kim hands him a small paper bag. Jaebeom looks inside and sees a long, fat roll of kimbap. “My wife had a party last night with her friends and made enough kimbap for all of Korea! I’m _ stuffed_! I really don’t think I can handle another roll. Thought here would be a good opportunity to get rid of some.” He nudges Jaebeom with his elbow and winks. “See ya.”

Jaebeom bows a little as the middle-aged man walks away and looks back at the food with wide eyes. He hasn’t had homemade food in a long time. He’s excluding his own survival concoctions, of course, because while he wouldn’t consider himself a bad cook, things just don’t taste as good when expensive key ingredients have to be omitted or replaced. There’s nothing like a mother’s cooking. And he never had the opportunity to learn. 

Jaebeom clutches the paper bag tightly, pursing his lips. Mr. Kim is at a faraway table, laughing with other older men. Jaebeom takes off his hard hat and grabs his belongings: the jacket and yet another rice ball. It’s not until he settles down on the floor of his little hiding spot that he realizes how precious this roll of kimbap is. He completely stills upon the first bite, ignoring the two cats playing with his shoelaces. 

It’s a taste that’s familiar and all too nostalgic. There’s the initial burst of sesame oil, the sweet and sour pickled radish, the soy sauce from the blanched spinach, the fresh cut carrots, and the thick juicy cut of steak. 

Bambam doesn’t appear today either, but that’s a blessing in disguise. Jaebeom wouldn’t want him to see him shedding a tear or two over an uncut roll of kimbap.

“Meow.”

Jaebeom looks over at a little white munchkin, matted with grime and dirt. Its paw is on his leg. “Alright.” He rips off a piece of meat. “Just a little bit.”

-

When Bambam first got dispatched to the East, he thought he was being sent to his death sentence. He had always known it was going to be either him or his Father, but he was truly thrown for a loop when the mission came and the first thought that crossed his mind was that _he_ was going to be the one to be buried into the ground. Bambam would have gone on a rampage – would have assassinated his Father in the slowest, cruelest way before taking the entire _Ngu Phis,_ the Vipers, off from the maps forever. It would have thrown all his plans for the past 13 years down the drain. 

Kunpimook Bhuwakul Bambam was once a normal kid too. (Wasn’t everyone before they ended up here?) He lived a happy carefree life with his mom, dad, two brothers and a tiny little sister who was still on the bottle. They weren’t rich, but they weren’t poor either. His dad made sure that he never felt he was lacking anything compared to his friends. If the neighborhood kids could have ice cream, then Bambam could run outside with 10 baht in his fist. If everyone was starting to get their first bike, then Bambam could borrow his older brother’s, Beer or Bank, if he asked nicely. His mom was always busy with Baby. Baby needs her diaper changed, Baby needs to take a nap, Baby needs to eat – Baby, Baby, Baby. Of course Bambam was a little bit jealous. He was too young to understand a young toddler's needs. 

It was on their first family vacation that Bambam lost everything. Their dad was taking too long to pay the bill. Restless, their mom went to check what was going on. Baby was handed at first to Beer, the eldest, but ended up making the rounds in her brothers' arms once Beer got tired. Neither of their parents came back. Within a few hours, a white foreign man showed up and took them away. 

And this man, a wanted Colombian, was soon to become Bambam’s Father. His dad’s murderer. His mom’s rapist. The reason why his brothers are drug addicts. 

Only Bambam was left, and he was the only one out of the entire family to dare look back into Father’s eyes filled with tears and hatred, all while cradling Baby in his skinny arms. He never actually got to learn her full name. His mom had said it maybe once or twice to deaf ears, with him being too busy playing and watching TV to pay attention. Bambam would never have the chance to ask again, and that would be one of his biggest regrets. 

Their house was burned down, of course. No evidence of their existence remained. It was decided that Bambam would play along with Father’s games, if only to keep Baby out of the _ business _. They took a gamble on each other – Bambam would become his heir, would learn how to scheme and murder, how to plunder and defend territory, and how to monopolize opium and heroin at the Golden Triangle. Father would rise to power, accumulate an ungodly amount of wealth, and become even more difficult to kill. Furthermore, he would always have Bambam’s sister as leverage, threatening to pull her out of enrollment in Cambridge when spotting signs of disobedience. 

The sudden shipment to South Korea seemed more like a setup to dismember Bambam and discard his remains overboard more than anything else. Maybe he had grown tired of this farce.

Luckily Mark was there to wipe away his enraged vision and inform him that a trusted lieutenant had stolen more than 90 kilograms of opium meant for a deal in Japan. The cargo had gone off course and was being distributed by a smaller gang that dared to sell their goods for a cheaper price. Bambam was sent here with his _ thorns _ to completely annihilate them, using any means necessary. But now that he’s here–

“This is just fucking sloppy,” Bambam scoffs at the map laid out in front of him. “They’re so _ easy _ to figure out.” He brushes it away, no longer wanting to look at the red marks on the enemy’s movements. “This is the work of an amateur. I didn’t even need to come here; I could’ve just sent _ you _.” Bambam clicks his tongue and blows some stray hairs out of his face. It lands right back where it was, so he resigns to actually combing his hair through his fingers.

Mark’s silence means that he agrees. 

“Well,” Bambam sighs and stands up from his comfy chair, “send a team over to cut transit off here.” He points to a location near the sea. “When they realize they can’t load everything, they’ll want to escape to _ here_,” he taps on a pin a few inches away, “but we’ll lay a trap. Take a few hostages for questioning.” 

Bambam reaches for his keys on the table, to which Mark slides behind him out of nowhere to stop him. Anticipating this, Bambam knocks the keys to the other side, where he can easily grab it if he bends over but Mark would have to either pin him down or somehow do a fancy flip just to beat him to it. It’s not worth the effort for Mark to do any of that, so Bambam wins. (But God, having two agile, soundless killers in the same room can be such a hassle.)

“I’m going out.” He smiles and twirls the keys around his index finger. “I trust you to handle this.” 

“Are you going by yourself?” Mark asks, eyes already darkening with disapproval. 

“I’ll be fine,” Bambam assures him, running a hand down his arm. “No one knows who I am.” He steps away, but Mark catches him by his waist. The heat of his hand seeps through Bambam’s dress shirt. 

“We’re not on our turf,” Mark reminds him. “You’re the backbone of our _ family_. Nothing can happen to you.” 

Bambam studies Mark’s hard eyes for a moment, and takes a step closer. “Relax,” he murmurs soothingly. Bambam cups his neck, thumb lying right where his jawline begins. “_Nothing will happen to me_.” Mark closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I won’t die.” 

Mark clenches his jaw at those words. 

“Besides, for all they know, _ you’re _ ‘_The Rose_.’” Bambam tilts his head, teasing. “I’ll look suspicious with too many bodyguards. I can only do this because you’re here. So don’t die.” The words, although intentionally light in tone, carry heavy weight on them. Mark opens his eyes and stares deeply into Bambam.

“I won’t die,” Mark says with determination. He sinks into Bambam’s touch, hand circling around his wrist.

Bambam nods. “Good,” he whispers. “I’ll be back at my place before you know it.” 

When he leaves, he doesn’t turn back. He already knows Mark always keeps his eyes on him until he’s completely out of sight, and quite frankly… Bambam is tired of it. Mark had always been attached, from the moment he shot down Mark’s adoptive family without batting an eyelash to the moment he laid down on the recliner and swore his life to _ La Rosa _ of _ Ngu Phis_, spending months to have his back tattooed in thorns and snakes. Bambam hated being called that, for it was a dirty sneer coined by his Father when he grew up small and slender, nothing like any of the bulky, muscle-headed men that made up his council. If anyone laughed, Bambam slit their throat to silence them. As blood splattered across his face, deep red dripping down his tanned skin, people learned to keep their mouths shut. But it only made Father laugh harder, as if it proved his point. 

“_Mi rosa_,” he would grin and put his rough hand wherever the blood was dripping. Bambam grew up in a multitude of languages and he despises each one that comes out of that man’s mouth. It certainly didn’t help when he started to mature into his looks, and the gaze in Father’s eyes changed. The nickname started to sound different, sinister in a way that was different from the usual area of malice. Sinister, because it was tender. Petrifying, because it was special, like a prized possession; no other ranked man had a title like him. Eventually he was ordered to have a separate brand added to his tattoos too, as if to make it official. Bambam doesn’t like to think too deeply into that or the caresses down his then freshly inked back – he’ll fucking throw up. 

Mark knows all that and still refers to him as The Rose, dedicated to the point of becoming his double and putting his face out to the underground world just to shield Bambam from attack. Combined with the fact that Bambam “rescued” him from abuse, Bambam thinks he’s developed some sort of twisted fantasy in his head. Bambam won’t ask what it is, nor take interest in it unless it ceases to be beneficial to him. He can overlook the overbearing protectiveness for now. Someday Mark will realize Bambam isn’t anybody’s savior. 

This mission is a blessing in disguise. Now that the initial affrontation has rubbed off, Bambam is seeing it for what it can be. A trip. Bambam has to chuckle over how innocent that sounds. But it’s true. He may be young to the eye, but he feels like he’s aged double his appearance, having to first struggle for his life and now to protect other lives. Bambam himself may not trust anyone, but all his men, dressed in black and proudly wrapped in thorns, are loyal to him to a fault. He has to survive long enough to be king, to one day finally shove his boot down Father’s throat, and at that point he will have to reward them for all the lives lost to get there. 

But until then, this is a frozen point in time. He’s free. 

Bambam takes a long drive through the freeway with the windows rolled down, whizzing by traffic without a care for all the honks trailing behind him. He’s not in a luxurious sports car or anything remotely close, but the thrill is still there. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he pulls over by a river and see his reflection in the tinted windows. He wraps his long coat around himself and spends at least an hour just walking back and forth, admiring the red-orange glow of the setting sun and the flicker of city lights. 

The air here is cold and dry, unlike the rotten humidity at the borders of Thailand. It’s like he can _ feel _ the fresh opium sap settling on his skin with a sticky residue there. Here, it’s nice. He’s not used to having to prepare for the cold all the time, but he already prefers it over his home. Besides, thick jackets and long coats make it easier for him to hide his customized pistol and favorite knives. So easy in fact, he’s been guilty of carrying too much and regretting it later when it weighs him down. The extra pockets are just too tempting. 

Bambam stays there, watching regular civilians jog by until it’s dark out. He hops back into the car for a drive to the supermarket. There, he finds amusement in pretending to be normal. 

Groceries are always supplied to him by an underling, and the food is made-to-order by an in-house chef. If he doesn’t eat at the residence, then there are many connections to famous restaurants that will bow and cater to his needs. Although he knows what markets look like, and has been in them before, there was never an opportunity to personally shop. It just seemed like an idle thing to do when there were more important things at hand, like making a quick stop on the way after a successful shipment to see if the owner is paying his monthly fees. Things like that, not picking up a Saturday Sale pamphlet and reading over the ads. He even sees older women cursing and elbowing each other over the best watermelons. It’s highly entertaining, especially when Bambam compares it to the reasons _ he _ fights. 

He browses through the store, picks some interesting flavors of chips into his basket, and then decides to tackle the orange stand to join in the fun. Bambam wedges himself in between the elderly easily, smiling and charming them as he picks up an orange for inspection. He’s about to bag the one in his hand when the lady next to him tuts at him and practically smacks his hand to drop it. (His reflexes almost kicked in, which could have been… deadly, to say the least.)

“No, no!” She shakes her head. “Bad orange. You have to _ feel_.” She hands him another orange, which she had been hoarding in her other hand. Bambam is forced into groping the orange to _ feel _ whatever she’s talking about. “See? Juicy.” And then she waves her hand to let him have it.

Bambam laughs a little. “Thank you so much.”

“Youngsters these days…”

Although he originally planned to grab whatever and saunter off, the old woman next to him continues to watch him with disapproval until she eventually tells him to step aside. His basket is filled to the brim with frightening speed. 

This is how Bambam ends up with a heavy paper bag full of oranges he didn’t necessarily want. It’s also how he comes face to face with a stray that he had honestly forgotten about. 

The weight of the oranges proves to be too much as the glue holding the bottom flaps together splits. Bambam barely manages to plug the hole by caving his body into the bag before the entire thing falls apart, but two oranges fall to the ground and roll away towards someone’s feet anyway. Despite having forgotten about him, Bambam recognizes him instantly. 

“Are you always dropping things like this?”

Bambam bites down a grin at the situation, genuinely embarrassed to found in such a peculiar position. If Mark could see his inelegant form right now, the poor guy might short-circuit. Bambam had never shown any weakness, any miscalculation to anyone, and it figures that the first person to see it would be this near-stranger. Jaebeom bends down to pick up the oranges and comes over to help Bambam regain balance. He puts his hand beneath Bambam’s, lifting the grocery bag up.

“What do you mean?” Bambam asks, already having a hunch. 

“Your bracelet,” Jaebeom huffs. “I found it two weeks ago. How could you drop something so important?”

“_Oh_,” Bambam feigns surprise, gasping. Although, he’s actually pleased – Bambam imagined two scenarios, one where Jaebeom returns his bracelet and one where he doesn't. After doing a brief background check, Jaebeom seemed like someone desperate enough to pawn it off instantly. It could have been an easy way to swindle him into debt then. He wouldn’t be able to repay it, which means he would have had to find other methods to do so, methods that the Vipers could easily provide. It's standard procedure. Boring.

“My mother’s?” He lies, perking up and staring at Jaebeom with big, hopeful eyes.

As for the other scenario…

Bambam sees it right in front of him. He sees the way Jaebeom holds his breath as he moves in too close, the way his gaze flickers from Bambam’s glittery, innocent eyes to his slightly parted lips. He can see how Jaebeom must have been dying to see him again, holding onto the bracelet for two whole weeks even though those beautiful diamonds must have continuously mocked the emptiness in his stomach. 

Bambam is simmering with excitement. Jaebeom wants him. The stray he wanted to pet might be his to play with after all.

“Your mother’s?!” Jaebeom splutters. “How could you lose – never mind, here.” Jaebeom attempts reach into his pocket, but everything in the grocery bag slips a little further the moment he moves his hand. Bambam squeaks pitifully, shrinking into a squat now. “Whoa–! You got it?”

“…Mhm.” Bambam smiles sheepishly. 

“Wait a moment, I’ll be right back.” 

Jaebeom hurries into the market, presumably to get another bag. Bambam watches his running form coming in and out of the door, back by his side within a heartbeat to help him move the groceries into a sturdier bag. Jaebeom’s cheeks are rosy when he works his body, a detail that Bambam had missed before out of indifference. The corners of Bambam’s lips curl into a wide grin. Well, he’s _ very _ interested now. 

“Thank you,” Bambam says sweetly when Jaebeom insists on carrying everything for him. “You’re so strong!”

Jaebeom harrumphs, turning his head the other way to hide how easily the compliment is stroking his ego. “This is nothing. You’re just weak.” 

Bambam bursts out laughing, the sound bright as bells. Oh, how amusing. If only Jaebeom knew. 

“How mean!” Bambam exclaims, indulging in the fake narrative Jaebeom seems to be slowly developing unawarely. “Not everyone has time to exercise for fun like you do. Do you box or something?” He looks at Jaebeom’s broad shoulders and defined arms appreciatively. 

Jaebeom glances back at him as they continue to walk towards the parking lot. Even though he has no idea where Bambam’s car is, he’s still taking the lead. “I don’t box. I–!” He interrupts himself, seemingly hesitant as he reveals honestly, “I work in construction.” 

Bambam skips to catch up to him. He gets purposefully close as they walk side by side, wondering what Jaebeom’s reaction will be. “Oh really?” He already knew that, but. “I guess that makes more sense, since you clearly got beat up the first time I saw you.”

Jaebeom stops in his tracks, the sole of his shoe squeaking on the ground. “Hey,” he frowns. “I’ll have you know I won that fight. I defended myself just fine.”

Bambam’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”

“Yes,” Jaebeom grunts, frowning.

“Are you sure?” Bambam tilts his head, pouting and furrowing his brows. “It’s okay to admit that you lost, you know. I won’t judge you!”

Jaebeom growls, muttering something under his breath before barking at Bambam. “I didn’t lose!” Bambam smiles like he doesn’t believe him. “Seriously! Of course I looked like a train wreck; it was two against one.”

“Okay, okay,” Bambam appeases and nudges Jaebeom’s side teasingly, biting down a smile that’s threatening to grow wider. “I believe you. By the way…”

“Huh?” Jaebeom perks up. 

“This is my car.” Bambam stops and points at a black car now a few steps behind Jaebeom. It’s one of the newer Hyundai models. 

“Oh. Right.” Jaebeom comes back as the trunk is opened, placing the grocery bag down at a secure enough spot. With nothing to hold it in place, he thinks a hard turn would have the oranges rolling again though. Bambam closes it shut, but now Jaebeom finds himself in a tough position. He has to return the bracelet – that’s what he’s here for. That’s why he spent so much time sitting outside for hours at the same cold bench for two weeks straight. (Jaebeom mentally rolls his eyes. All that waiting was for naught, considering how he only meets Bambam when and where he least expects it.)

If he gives Bambam back his bracelet… that might be the end of them. They’d have no reason to see each other anymore. 

Jaebeom toys around with it in his pocket, thumb running along the edges of the diamonds. Should he say he forgot it at home? 

“Isn’t it strange, how we’ve managed to cross paths three times coincidentally?” Bambam speaks up first.

Jaebeom purses his lips, nodding. “Yeah.” Argh, but he doesn’t want to be dishonest… he wants to be trusted. He already looks awful enough in front of Bambam. Even in their casualwear they’re such a big contrast. Jaebeom is in a five-year-old faded hoodie and thinning jeans while Bambam has on a nice thick coat and slim trousers. And he has a _ car_. It’s normal to own one, but it’s something Jaebeom can’t even dream of having. It’s embarrassing how poor he is. He can’t be known as a thief either. 

"Don't you think it's fate?" 

"Yeah," Jaebeom answers distractedly. When it _ hits_, what Bambam just said, his head snaps up. "What?" His eyes widen, heart rate soaring. Jaebeom immediately wants to crush his stupid chest. _ Shut up_, he grits inside his head. _ Be realistic. Bambam is so pretty. And nice. And out of reach. Shut the fuck up. _

Bambam hides his face behind his hands. "I think it's fate that we met. What about you?" He says quietly, peeping at Jaebeom through his fingers.

_ And he's cute_.

"…I think so too," Jaebeom mumbles, face feeling like a hot mess. Without any prompting, he gently takes one of Bambam's hands off his face and pulls out the bracelet from his pocket. He locks the clasp onto Bambam's wrist, where it dangles daintily on his tanned skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I,,,, didn't manage to finish in time.....sigh, really disappointed in myself. will be posting the second half asap! apologies to the admins for being a problem child :(


End file.
